Goodbye Uncle Chucky

When I was a kid, I always loved to visit with my Uncle Chucky.

You see, even though Uncle Chucky was my dad's baby brother, he was definitely the coolest of all the uncles.  He was one of the first people I knew to have a gigantic boom box in the eighties, and he listened to the kind of music that I liked too which was a major bonus.  In fact, when Kool and the Gang would belt out "Celebration", you could usually find Uncle Chucky doing his famous half strut/ half dance move and encouraging the rest of us to join in with him.

In short, Uncle Chucky was an enormous kid . . .an enormous kid with a giant heart.

I remember when my grandfather, Cap, died, I was just shy of my 12th birthday.  It was Halloween time, and all of the adults were mourning the loss of their dad.  And even though Chucky had just lost his dad,  he would have no part of me or my cousin's missing Halloween or my birthday.  We pieced together costumes from our cousin's house and we assembled in my grandparents' front living room.

"Everyone ready?" Chucky asked.

We all nodded eagerly, and then Chucky looked pointedly at me.

"Annie, WHAT is that?"

Not knowing what he could be talking about, I answered with a blank stare and a shrug of my shoulders.  He walked over to me with purpose and grabbed the plastic grocery bag I was planning to use to collect candy. 

"This!  What's this?  THIS will never do!"  Chucky explained, and then he was off.  He ran up my grandmother's stairs two at a time, and when he returned he carried pillows from her bed. He stripped those pillows of their cases and handed them out to me and to the other pillow-case-less cousins.

"NOW we are ready!" he declared when he finished, and then he led us through my first experience with sprinting during trick-or-treating.

That night I came home completely out of breath and exhausted, but I had an enviable mound of candy in my pillowcase that was probably almost as tall as I was, and I had a memory of my 12th birthday that is still etched on my heart. . . all because of Chucky.

Of course, Chucky was always up for a good time, and he loved a good game of cards.    He especially loved to hold all of his cards until he was just about to go out.  And when he did go out on you, he inevitably left you holding a fist full of face cards.  It was exasperating.   I swear,  the man was part "Rainman" in his ability to count cards.  And the worst part?  He would sit there smiling that sly smile of his while his eyes would dare you to try him again.  It was a challenge that I fell for many a time.

One Memorial Day Chucky loaded all of the kids into his car to take us to a parade.  Even though we were quite scrunched in the back seat and there was no air conditioning, even though our legs stuck to the leather of his seats, and even though his car over-heated on the highway on the way home, it didn't matter to us.  Uncle Chucky spoiled us that day.  He cranked the music loud in the car, he bought us every imaginable piece of junk food that the parade vendors hocked, and he took turns putting each of us on his shoulders so that we could see the parade better.  It was a great day.

And there were many great days.  I will always remember when Chuck sang and danced to Right Said Fred's "I'm Too Sexy" during our Mardi Gras family reunion.  I will remember his visits to my Florida childhood home and especially his stories about the not one, but two tickets he received on his drive down there.  I will remember his hearty laugh that bent him over at the waist when something tickled him, and I will remember the way that he liked his tea, "just so", with milk and sugar.  I will always remember Uncle Chuck the eternal kid splashing with my kids in the pool, just like he had splashed me oh so many years ago.

My, Uncle Chucky . . . he was one of kind.

And there is a hole in my heart today as I learned of his death.

But I am going to make myself a cup of his tea,
and crank up the music loudly,
and play rummy with my kids. . .

All in the hopes that Uncle Chucky is out there smiling.


*************************************************************

Love to all of my family.~Annie

When There Are No Words . . .

As our friend Kelly spoke about her son, I clutched Paul's hand and tried to focus on holding myself together.

She spoke about his belly laughs and his love of uniforms. She even laughed as she detailed how he had dressed as a cowboy or a policeman to pretend and to play grown up.  She related his love of sports and of the outdoors.  Finally, she finished with the simple words, "Tommy, you will always be my baby boy."

And, I lost it.

I sobbed. 

I cried for my friends, Kelly and Randy, who had lost their 20 year old son and were now speaking at his funeral.  It is a reality that I am sure that they had never prepared for or conceived.  And even though both Kelly and Randy were composed and spoke beautifully, I could only imagine the pain that they would feel when they went back to their home without their baby boy, Tommy.

I cried for all the red eyed young adults that sat zombie-like in the church pews.  And, even though they weren't kids anymore, when I looked at them, I pictured them as they used to be when they were my students.  I could remember this one's braces and crooked smile and that one's penchant for wearing his ball cap backwards.  They were adults today, but they were also still babies when it came to life's lessons, and their shocked eyes gave away their very raw grief.  They were stunned that one of them, one of their own, was gone.

And despite the fact that I knew it was selfish, I cried at the thought that I could lose my son.  My baby boy.

It was just too much to hold inside.

My tears spilled down my cheeks, unchecked.  My mascara made rivers that tracked down my face and dripped off my chin.  With one hand, I dabbed at them with my ball of wadded up tissues, and with the other hand, I clung to Paul in a vise-like grip.

I am hanging on.

I am hanging on.
______________________________________________________________

If you are of the praying sort, please keep this family in your hearts.  They need lots of love and support. 
~Annie

My Kid Has a Peanut Allergy

Dear Moms and Dads,

Your whispers and eye rolls did not go unnoticed.

I saw them.  I noticed them.  And, I even understand them.

You see, five years ago, I was you.

I sat in a classroom listening to another mom in my oldest daughter's class plead for the life of her son.  Her son had a peanut allergy and any exposure to peanuts or a peanut product would cause him to go into anaphalactic shock.   The mom begged us not to send in any treats that contained nuts so that her son could be safe.

The thing is, I can clearly remember thinking, "Oh, give me a break!"   Her words echoed in my head, "He could die from a peanut."   The actual idea of it just sounded so ridiculous. A peanut?  Really?  I thought about how Abbie would not be able to bring in her favorite treat, peanut butter cups, for her special treat day.  I thought about the fun tradition of making fall haystacks with chow mein noodles and peanut butter and chocolate that we would not be able to share at the classroom Halloween party.  In short, I thought about how no peanuts would affect me and my own kid.

I was selfish.

Never once did I think about that other mom or her fears for her son's life.

And now . . . I am that mom.

My kid has a peanut allergy.  And just last week, I had to stand in front of you parents and explain how my Ellerie, my little full of energy, sprite-like ball of smiles, could be taken down by just one little peanut.

I emphasized.

I pleaded.

I even begged.

But, even in this day, when there are many kids that have life threatening allergies, I saw you roll your eyes at me as if to say, "Oh no!  Not another kid in my kid's class with allegies. . ."

I get it.

I really do.

Because I was you.

I was selfish.


But now. . . I am not.


Now, I am depending on you. . .

to help keep my 3 year old baby safe,
to keep my girl peanut free,
to keep my Ellerie alive.

In short,  I am entrusting her life to all of you. . .

And I am praying that you have an unselfish heart.


Humbly,

Annie


********************linking to Shell's PYHO***********************

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Signs, Signs, Everywhere There Are Signs

I don't write about God very often here.

I try to keep my writing light hearted and uplifting.  I hope that I can make you laugh  . . . or spit out your coffee.  Because of this, you may think that God is not a part of my life.

And, you would be wrong.

My relationship with God is one of my sturdy and steadying forces in my life.   In fact, many days I recognize that He is talking to me.  But before you go off thinking that I am hearing voices or speaking in tongues, I am talking about how God uses signs to speak to me.

Signs, signs, everywhere there are signs.

What?

You don't believe me?

Try this.

This weekend, the family traveled to Western Pennsylvania for hub's family reunion.  We were approximately 6 hours from our home.  We were supposed to stay with one of hub's relatives, but we decided against it.  Instead, the plan was to drive a few hours down the road, grab a hotel, and make the rest of the trip the next day.  Except after driving a few hours and calling hotel after hotel,  we were out of luck. 

Everything was booked.

The kids were getting sleepy and hubs and I decided to grab some coffee so that we could just drive through the night home.  I pulled off at the next exit, and as I did, I noted that we were actually in my dad's hometown.  And, while I had never lived there myself, I had spent many a summer there with cousins and family, and this little town always felt like home. 

 Weird, right?

So, I drove to the nearest gas station, which hubs promptly rejected.  "They don't have good coffee, "he explained.  He directed me to the nearby BP and I maneuvered the car up to that gas pump.

It was then that I noticed the car at the next pump.  It was a cute, little, 4 door sedan with personalized plates, and there was a petite blond woman pumping gas. 

It was my favorite Aunt Joanie.

She was on a break from work,  and she had decided to get gas in her car to get away for a bit.

We ended up at the same gas station at the same time . . .and she wanted us to stay at her home.

A God moment, right? 

Probably.

Except I didn't see it that way right then.  I just thought that it was a great coincidence.  We exchanged hugs and kisses, laughed about the situation, and then we went on our way home.

And in the dark, with my family sleeping and hubs driving, I watched cornfield after cornfield zip  by the car window and I realized I had been blind.

Duh.

Apparently, in order for me to see a sign from Him, God would have to emblazon a billboard with a flashing arrow and my name, because all the subtle little coincidences didn't do it.

My family had been in need, God had provided for us, and I had not recognized the signs.

I felt like an idiot.

But a humble idiot that will now try just a bit harder to listen to that little voice inside me and to open my eyes to the signs, whatever they may be.


****************************I am linking this to Shell's Pour Your Heart Out**********************
Go check out some of the other bloggers pouring out their hearts.

Join me on twitter   @annieinsanity

Deep Thoughts Inspired By What Not To Wear

Although it is sweltering outside, the inside of my house is cool and quiet.  The kids are at the pool with hubs, and I am indulging in a favorite guilty pleasure, watching What Not To Wear.

Except today is different.

Today, Clinton and Stacy are helping a mommy blogger.  Specifically, they are helping Amanda of Parenting By Dummies.  She is a busy mommy of 3, like me, and she is one funny lady.  Amanda, in real life, is much like she is on her blog.  Endearing, real, and quick to point out her own inadequacies for a laugh.

Just a doll.

So, why did she need Clinton and Stacy? 

Amanda needed the What Not to Wear team because her confident, blogging voice, her Amanda-ness, did not shine through to the people that she knew in real life.  Heck.  Amanda's confident blog persona did not even come through to herself.  Her outside appearance did not match her inside self.

Clearly, she had a disconnect.

And that made me wonder.

Am I who I appear to be on this blog?

Sure.  Many of you that follow me read my silly stories about being a mom and wife.  You hear about my embarrassments like shaving my armpit in the CVS parking lot or even flashing my panties at the local Target.  You even share my losses like when a former student passed away.  You know those parts of me.

But if I met you at a party, would I be as engaging, as confident, as interesting?

The sad truth is . . . probably not.

Because the the truth is that behind this computer screen, I feel safe.  If you don't like me, so what?  If I don't meet your expectations,  no biggie.  If you don't agree with me, I don't care.  This screen is like an invisible armor around the real me.

But in real life,  if you don't like me, your eyes can't lie, and I can feel that disapproval burn into my skin.

In real life, if I don't meet your expectations, I will feel the crushing disappointment of falling short of pleasing you.

In real life, if you don't agree with me, I will probably take it personally even if your opinion has absolutely nothing to do with me.

Like Amanda, I have a disconnect.

And, if I want to be a successful writer, I have to find a way to make my everyday Annie feel just as strong and empowered as the blogger Annie.  I need to find a way to wear my invisible armor in my everday life.

And I think that just by hitting the publish button . . . I may have taken the first step.


*****************linking to Shell and PYHO****************************

I Want To Get Off This Roller Coaster

I am struggling with this one.

In fact, I have started this post 7 different times only to reread my words, take a deep breath and hit delete.  If I were writing this old school with actual pen and paper, I would probably have a mountain of wadded up notebook paper at my feet and ink stains on my fingertips. 

But I don't.

Instead, I have a blinking cursor daring me to write the hard things.  The important things.  The things that I can not say. . .

I have been on a roller coaster this past week.  Summer arrived, as it always does, with a feeling of freedom and promise and sweet expectations.  The kids and I had made our summer wish list, and we had visited the pool for a last day of school picnic.  I was relaxing into my summer mode when my mom's phone call arrived.

"Dad is going in for another heart catherization."

My mood plummeted.

Her voice was low, but even, which I found odd.  I know that she was staying calm for my dad and probably for me too, but every word she spoke was like a click of a roller coaster inching its way to its peak. 

"Again?" I questioned quietly.  "What happened?"

She replied, "He is having chest pains, " and then she paused for what seemed like a week, " . . . just like last time."

And then silence.

What else was there to say, after all?  We had ridden this ride before 3 years ago.  And after that terrifying experience, there were promises made to eat better, to make smarter choices, and to exercise. 

Promises that have not been kept.

And here is the rub . . . dad's heart procedure went fantastically.  He is at home recovering, and I am thrilled that he is feeling better, that he is OK, and that we all get to have him around.  So, why do I still feel like I am on the roller coaster?  Why do I keep anticipating that next bottom-falling-out feeling?  That next drop?

It is an interesting problem.  Loving someone so much that you can not imagine your life without him, but also recognizing that life without him is a very real possibility if things do not change.  Loving someone so much that you would do anything for him, but being unable to make him do any one thing that will keep him alive.

It is frustrating as hell.

And truthfully, it makes me so angry that I want to scream and throw things and bury my head under a pillow just like my 3 year old does when things get a bit too scary. 

But I don't.

Instead, I call and talk to Dad and listen to him joke about his "6 pack" of stents.  I know he is joking because that is just his way, but I don't find it the least bit funny. And when I try to broach the subject and get serious, Dad changes the topic to our family's summer plans.  I want to parent him and lecture him and give him a laundry list of what to do and what not to do.

But I don't.

Instead, I love him  . . . and hope that that will be enough.

**********Linking to this week's Things I Can't Say ****************************

It Was Me

Today, bloggy friends, I am going WAAAAAY out of my comfort zone.

I wrote this prompt for the Red Dress Club.  The prompt was a memoir.  The topic was after you have died, your daughter/son will be given the gift of seeing a single five-minute period of your life through your eyes, feeling and experiencing those moments as you did when they occurred. What five minutes would you have him/her see?





The following is what poured out . . .

************************************************************************************

"Just come home, Annie,"  my mom pleaded over the phone.   Then she dropped her tone, and restated the offer simply, "Come home."

The words hung there as I cradled the phone against my shoulder. 

Come home.

"I'll think about it mom."  I answered half-heartedly.

Then I repeated it.   "I promise, mom.  I will think about it."

But thinking about it was exactly what I did not want to do.  Thinking about it made it real, and for the moment, my morning's activities were still stuck in the un-real.

If I didn't think about it, I could pretend that it wasn't me that had stood in front of a courtroom that very morning.  It certainly wasn't me nervously wringing my hands as the judge spoke sternly to first me and then to my husband.  It couldn't have been me that barely noticed my attorney's steadying hand on my shoulder when the judge gave his verdict.  And clearly, it wasn't me that had to momentarily sit down when the judge declared that the marriage, my marriage, was dissolved.

Divorce.

It couldn't have happened to me.

But it did.

It happened to me.

I was twenty four years old, hundreds of miles away from my family, and I was divorced.

Alone.

My shame threatened to choke me, and as I glanced at my reflection in mirror, it was hard for me to look myself in the eye.

"How could you have let this happen?"  I accused the mirror me.

I studied myself and waited for an answer, but there was none.  There was just my reflection.  Limp unwashed hair, mascara stained cheeks, and pointy collar bones stared back at me daring me to answer. 

Disgusted, I turned away from me, but when I did, I caught a flash from my gold hoop earring.  And that's when I realized it.

I had on one gold hoop earring, and I had on one diamond stud.

I had gone to court, stood in front of the judge, and participated in my own divorce proceedings wearing two different earrings.

It was just too much.  I started to giggle.  Then, my shoulders began to quiver and I gave in to the laughs. Soon enough, the laughs gave way to tears. 

And through the snot and mascara and tears, I noticed something that I hadn't seen in a long, long time.
My smile.

It was me.

It happened to me.

But, I was smiling. 

I was still smiling.

I picked up the phone, dialed my mom, and when she answered I stated clearly with no explanation, "Mom?  . . . I am home."

I am a Sun Goddess No More

Dear 16 year Annie,

It's me, Annie.  Thirty-seven year old , Annie, that is.

I am here from the future to beg you, plead with you,  and bargain with you.

Please.

Wear sunscreen.

No.  Do not roll your eyes.  I am not kidding.


You see, dear 16 year old self, I just got back from the dermatologist's office.  And, let me tell you girl, it was not fun.  In fact, it was damn sobering.

First,  we have been diagnosed with adult acne, and that itself is hard to swallow.  Because in its simplest form it means that a) we are old and b) we have pimples.  My skin is no longer the golden hued smooth skin that you have now.  It has bumps and creases and when my hormones are raging, my skin downright hurts. 

But that is not the worst, my dear.

Nope.

That's not it.

The worst was when the dermatologist used her blindingly white light to inspect our face.  And, when she happened upon our age spot on our cheek, she said, "This," and she stopped to touch the spot.  "This HAS to come off."

At first, I was tickled.  Remove my age spot, make me look younger?  Great!

But then the doc calmly explained, "Annie.  It could turn into melanoma.  It has gotten bigger and it needs to come off, as a precaution."

I was no longer smiling (or breathing for that matter) . . . and you shouldn't be either.

So that good doctor took off that age spot with her -400 degree concentrated air thingy, and I tried to remember to breathe as I felt every millimeter of my stinging flesh.

And for the next few weeks, I have a big mole-like, charred flesh, Scarlet letter-like reminder that I (like you are now) was once a sun goddess.

And despite my joking, and my self comparison to the mole lady from Uncle Buck, this is not funny, my girl.



nickypapers.com and google images



It is scary . . . and not worth it.

And, if it meant that I would never have to have melanoma or any other skin cancer, if it meant that I could tell you and all those young girls out there that baking in the sun could equal cancer,  I would  and will wear this ugly skin badge loudly and proudly.

But, it doesn't.  There are no guarantees. 

There is, however, prevention.

So, wear that sunscreen, Annie.  Take it from your older, more wrinkly self.

You are worth it.

Love,
Annie

It's So Hard to Say Goodbye

When I went into labor with Abbie,  I was prepared.

I had read all of the baby books.

I had required hubs to read all of the baby books.

I had prepared the nursery.

I had attended the requisite child birth classes, and (despite the fact that hubs and I were asked to leave after we got an intense case of the giggles one session where husbands were required to kneel behind their wives while the wives were perched on all fours,) I felt that we had acquired enough knowledge to birth my first baby.


I was prepared.


That is,  I was prepared until the contractions (complements of pitocin) doubled me over.

Hubs grabbed my hand and looked me in the eye and asked,  "What should I do?"  My mom and hubs' mom left the room and started praying in the hallway.  And me?  My eyes glazed over, and I howled.

I was worthless.

Enter Amy.

With her brown bob swinging at her chin,  Amy entered the labor and delivery room pushing her overflowing navy blue stroller.  Her bright "Hey guys!"  fell on deaf ears as I wailed and hubs tried to soothe me. Quickly, Amy's determined eyes scanned the room and took in the scene.  And then she got to work.

With ease,  Amy popped open a Tupperware container filled with cereal, and then she poured it onto the stroller tray for her daughter Cara.  Then she reached under the stroller and extracted a fast food bag from out of nowhere.  I swear, it was as if she were Mary Poppins and that stroller was her travel bag.  I smelled the yummy hamburger before she pulled it out.  With a smile she stated simply, "I figured that Paul hadn't eaten."  Then she lured a helpless hubs away from me, and over to the uncomfortable couch  with that hamburger.

Then, Amy came over to my bedside.

She gently grabbed my hand and said, "It hurts pretty bad doesn't it?"

I answered with a whimper, and her eyes widened with understanding. 

She patted my hand, wiped my hair from my face, and then asserted with no-nonsense, "I will be right back!"

I watched as she gave a quick check to Cara, and then over to Paul, and then she hurried out of that room and into the hall.

And as calm and in charge Amy was while in my room,  she was a crazed force when she went into that hall.

"WILL SOMEBODY PLEASE GET MY GIRL SOME DRUGS IN HERE!"  she bellowed in the hallway outside of my room.

And when no nurse responded quickly enough, Amy again took charge,  "WE ARE STILL WAITING FOR SOME PAINKILLERS DOWN HERE!!!"

Finally, a nurse took action, and Amy returned to my bedside calmly.  She restated the obvious and explained, "They will be right here with some meds."

Then she held my hand until that nurse arrived with the painkillers.

Amy was that kind of friend.

She knew exactly what you needed even when you, in fact, did not.  She was a mentor mom to me when I was new and inexperienced and doubting every damn thing that I did as a new mom.  She was another mom and friend that had "been there."  She got me without explanation.  And, she made me smile just to be around her and her warmth.


And that is why I can not believe she is gone.



Last Tuesday  Amy went in for a routine surgery to help with her migraine headaches.  There was a complication.  Amy never woke up.


She left behind her four kids and her adoring husband.

She left behind a doting family.

She left behind an insane amount of friends and people that she had touched.


And, she left a hole in my heart.


I will miss you my girl.


I will be lost without your compass.

"Serious"ly Annie

Forgive me friends.

I do not have any funny stories to recount.

Or, any sassy observations to convey.


My heart is heavy today.


I just heard the news that a favorite uncle of mine has been diagnosed with liver cancer, and truthfully, I feel like I am under water and gasping for a breath.  You see, 8 years ago, hubs' mom was diagnosed with the same cancer.  At that time, I was younger, and more naive, and I didn't realize the gravity of a liver cancer diagnosis.  Even though it happened right in front of my eyes, I refused to see mom waste away with increasingly toxic doses of chemotherapy.  I was helped along in my denial by mom, of course.  You see, she was so very brave, and never once did she complain outright of pain or sickness.  Oh, she got a little cranky and even a bit spunkier than her normal self, but, she never complained about the cancer.  She was the ultimate mom, after all.  Worried about her kids and their feelings.  Selfless to the end.

But now that I am older, I see the seriousness of a liver cancer diagnoses, and it makes me feel like I have been punched in the stomach. Hard.


I ache.

I am tired.

And, most of all,  I want to reach out and hug my dad, my cousins, and my whole family.


Since they are far from me, I will hug my own little ones just a little bit closer.  I will drink in their delicious vitality, and  I will appeciate their warm smiles and mischievious laughs.  They heal the hurts.


Most of all, though,  I pray.